


On the Second Night of Hannukah....

by BarefootGirl



Series: Eight Ficlets of Hannukah [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Food, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 02:14:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9051235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarefootGirl/pseuds/BarefootGirl
Summary: The second of 8 planned winter holiday ficlets. Food. Fluff.  Bunker life. And a tiny smidge of maternal angst.





	

“Oh, excuse you,” Mary said, mock-offended, slapping her eldest son’s hand away. “I totally made those cookies.”

  
Dean scoffed, stealing another one off the cooking rack.  “Are you sure?  I mean, the meatloaf was a lie…”

“The meatloaf was not a lie!  I never once told you  - I never even told your father I cooked it.  Your father knew I was hopeless in the kitchen when he married me.”

Mary stopped, her head cocked as she thought.  “I think he thought I’d learn, though.  Your father… had limited understanding of the fact that women aren’t magical creatures born with housewifely skills.”

“That doesn’t surprise me at all,” Sam murmured from where he was sitting at the table, his laptop open, allegedly researching a new case.  The fact that it would have been quieter to do so in the war room, rather than the kitchen, went unremarked but not unnoticed by the other two, who continued to hustle around each other at the counter, Mary frosting the now-cooled cookies, and Dean measuring out ingredients for his turn at the oven.  He frowned, then fussed with it, resetting the temperature lower and rearranging the racks.

The look on his face when they’d unwrapped presents that morning, and Sam had given him what he proudly announced was a genuine fibrament baking stone, whatever that was…  

“You know, when sliced bread became commonly available in stores, most people stopped baking their own.  Or so my mother told me.”

“Yeah well, home-baked tastes better.  Trust me on this.”

“His bread makes awesome French toast, too,” Sam added without looking up.  “Which reminds me, we’re out of maple syrup.”

“Yeah, not a problem.  I sent Cas off to get some.”  Dean grinned.  “Real, proper maple syrup, not that chemical crap.  One time I gotta agree with Sam; organic’s the only way to go.”

Mary was horrified.  “You sent Cas to the store just to get maple syrup?”

“Nope.”  Dean turned the dough out of the bowl and arranged it on the baking stone.  “I sent him to 1950’s Maine.”

“To-“

“Joking, mom.  He went to the organic co-op Sam’s always raving about.  They’re the only ones open today, anyway.  We’re going to pay more for a twelve ounce jar of that than we did for an entire week’s of groceries, probably, but it’s worth it.”

Mary finished putting the first frosting glaze on the cooled gingerbread, and put the bowl of frosting back in the fridge.  She’d have to wait until it set before she could do the decorations.  In the meanwhile, she leaned against a bare spot of wall, her arms crossed over her chest, and watched Dean.  His movements at the counter were as sure and steady as they were out in the field, or stripping and cleaning weapons, and her eyes prickled a little as she recognized her own mother’s confidence there.  She’d never picked up those tricks, being too focused on learning from her father, as though anything domestic would make her less a Hunter.  And her mother had let her, probably thinking that there would be time for those skills to come.

But there hadn’t been.  The demon had come, her parents had died - _John_ had died - and everything had changed.

But here was Dean, named for the grandmother he'd only met briefly, as an adult, and she was bitterly reminded that life not only wasn’t fair, but that it had an ironic sense of balance. John was gone, her sons were older than she was, physically… she shouldn’t even be here, and at any point a hunt could go wrong, or an accident might hit, and a reaper would show up to escort her back to Heaven.  But for this moment, at this moment, she was here, and she had her boys.

Just then, Castiel came in the door, snow still coating the shoulders of his coat and dusting his hair, carrying a paper sack far too large to only hold one container of syrup.  From the looks both Sam and Dean gave him, and then each other, that hadn’t been unexpected.  

Her boys, and their angel.  That thought still set her back on her heels a little.  Okay, a lot.  She understood, intellectually, that not everything inhuman was a threat.

But her first instinct, every time he came into the room, was to reach for a weapon.

As though sensing her gaze on him - most likely he had - he looked up, and those blue eyes caught hers, leaving her unable to look away.

Her first instinct was to reach for a weapon.  But she was more than her instincts.  Hunters _looked_ , too.  And what she saw kept her hand from touching the knife sheathed in her boot, or the gun holstered in the small of her back.

Castiel.  Born of God’s will and might, trapped in a meat suit and tethered to earth.  Who had chosen to stay, and love and protect her sons.

Her return wasn’t the miracle.  Returning to see this, to knowing that her sons were good men, were well, and well-loved.  That was the miracle.

“Maple syrup, grade A dark amber, as requested,” the angel announced, dropping her gaze to pull a small container out of the sack, nothing at all like the plastic jugs they used to have when she was growing up.  “Also, another dozen eggs, potatoes, and matzo meal, because Sam had mentioned wanting to try his hand at latkes.  And apple sauce and sour cream, as I am told both are considered traditional accompaniments.”

“Awesome,” Dean said.  “ _After_ the bread is done.”

Mary shook her head, amused.  Apparently, the one thing she hadn’t missed out on, entirely, was trying to keep two active boys _fed_.

“Hey Sam,” she said. “I thought you were supposed to be on coffee duty?  The pot looks empty…”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Food is love. Making food for someone is saying "I love you."
> 
>  
> 
> Unbeta'd, because my usuals are up in their eggnog and latkes.... :-)


End file.
